Chapter 37 The Binder
Isabella's binder becomes my obsession.
She's been compiling it for two years—ever since her father vanished the night William Sterling was arrested. It's a meticulous document, organized with the precision of someone who learned early that chaos could be controlled through careful record-keeping. Tabs divide the sections: SIGHTINGS, ASSOCIATES, FINANCIAL TRAIL, KNOWN LOCATIONS, and—most chillingly—PATTERNS OF BEHAVIOR.
"This is the one that matters," Isabella says, tapping the last tab. We're in my dorm room on a Friday evening, the binder spread across my bed. Jenna is at a dance showcase, which gives us at least three hours of uninterrupted time. "My father is predictable. He has rituals. Routines. It's how he stayed invisible for so long while working for your father."
"What kind of rituals?"
"He always scouts a location for at least two weeks before making contact. He uses cash for everything, never the same denomination twice—mixes twenties, fifties, hundreds so the patterns don't flag. He stays in motels that don't require ID, the kind of places where you pay up front and no one asks questions. And he never, ever makes a move without an exit strategy."
I flip through the pages. The level of detail is staggering—dates, times, locations, descriptions of what he was wearing, who he was meeting. Isabella has been tracking her father the way a hunter tracks prey. Or maybe the way a daughter tracks the ghost of the man she used to love.
"You said you loved him," I say quietly. "Your father. Even after everything."
Isabella's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes. "I loved the man who taught me to ride a bike. The man who came to every dance recital, even when he'd been working eighteen-hour days. The man who told me bedtime stories about brave girls who saved themselves instead of waiting for princes." She pauses. "I don't know if that man ever existed. Or if he was just a mask my father wore when it was convenient."
"I know that feeling."
"I thought you might."
We sit in silence for a moment, two daughters of terrible men, bound by blood and secrets and the desperate need to believe we're different from our fathers.
Then Isabella taps the binder again. "There's something else. Something I haven't told you yet."
"More secrets?"
"Always." She flips to a section I haven't seen before, tucked behind a divider labeled CORRESPONDENCE. Inside are photographs of letters—handwritten, dated over the past six months, all sent from different locations. "He's been writing to me. Not regularly. But enough."
I scan the letters. The handwriting is cramped and sloping, the kind of penmanship that suggests someone who learned to write quickly, efficiently, without flourishes. The content is mundane—observations about weather, memories of Isabella's childhood, questions about her life that feel almost paternal. But underneath the ordinary words, there's something else. A current of menace. A warning wrapped in nostalgia.
I hope you're staying warm this winter. You always did hate the cold, even as a little girl. Remember when I taught you to ski? You fell seventeen times on the first day, refused to quit, and by the end of the weekend you were better than me. That's the thing about you, Isabella. You never know when to give up. You get that from me.
Be careful what you chase. Sometimes the things we're hunting are hunting us too.
"He knows you're looking for him," I say.
"I know. He's always known." Isabella traces the edge of the photograph with her finger. "These letters aren't warnings. They're invitations. He wants me to find him. The question is why."
"Maybe he misses you."
"Maybe. Or maybe he needs me for something. My father never did anything without a reason."
I think about the letter I received from Gerald Webb. The warning about Vincent Moretti. The insistence that I come alone. "What if your father and Gerald Webb are connected? What if this is all some kind of setup?"
"I've considered that. Webb and my father worked together for years—Webb handled the legal side, my father handled everything else. They were William Sterling's left hand and right hand. If Webb faked his death, it's possible my father helped him. It's also possible Webb is trying to lure you into a trap." She looks at me. "That's why I approached you openly. If this is a trap, we're walking into it together."
"Comforting."
"I'm not here to comfort you. I'm here to help you survive."
\---
The next letter arrives a week later.
It comes to my dorm room this time—not to the art department, not to the PO box. Someone found my home address. Someone knows where I sleep.
The envelope is the same cream-colored stock, the handwriting the same careful script. But this letter isn't from Gerald Webb. It's from Vincent Moretti.
Maya Reyes,
I know you've been meeting with my daughter. I know she's shown you the binder. I know you're trying to find me before I find you.
I respect the effort. You're braver than your father ever was—William always sent other people to do his dirty work. You face things yourself. That's admirable.
But you're also in over your head. The things I know about your family, about your father, about what really happened in the years before his arrest—they would destroy everything you've built. The siblings you love. The mothers who raised you. The peace you've found. All of it would burn.
I'm not your enemy, Maya. I'm a man who's been in hiding for two years, waiting for the right moment to tell the truth. My daughter thinks she's hunting me. But the truth is, I've been waiting for her to find me. I've been waiting for you.
There's a cabin in the White Mountains. Route 16, mile marker 47. Come on the first Saturday of December. Bring Isabella. Tell no one else.
This is not a trap. This is an invitation.
—Vincent Moretti
P.S. If you tell your sister Eleanor, I'll know. And I'll disappear again. This is your only chance to learn the truth about your father. Don't waste it.
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely hold the paper.
Isabella takes it from me, reads it twice, and sets it down very carefully, like it might explode. "He's never addressed me directly before. The other letters were written to someone else—someone he imagined I might be. This one is different."
"Different how?"
"He used my name. He acknowledged I'm looking for him." She looks up at me, and for the first time since I met her, she looks genuinely afraid. "He's ready. Whatever he's been planning, he's ready."
"The first Saturday of December. That's two weeks away."
"I know. And we're going." She meets my eyes. "Both of us. Together."
"What if it's a trap?"
"Then we face it together. But Maya..." She hesitates. "If my father is telling the truth—if he really knows things about your father that could hurt your family—you need to hear it. You need to know what he knows."
I think about Sophie and Sam. About Oliver's new paintings. About Eleanor's journalism career, which has started gaining national attention. About Caleb, who finally seems at peace. About Margaret and Caroline, who built a garden together from the wreckage of William's lies. About my mother, who gave up everything to protect me.
They've been through enough. They've survived enough. I can't let Vincent Moretti destroy what they've built.
"Two weeks," I say. "And we go together."
"Partners," Isabella says.
"Partners."
\---
That night, I do something I've been avoiding for months.
I call Eleanor.
Not to tell her about the letters. Not to tell her about Vincent Moretti or Isabella or the cabin in the White Mountains. But to hear her voice. To remind myself that she's still here, still safe, still the sister who showed up at a boathouse and tried to burn everything down and ended up building something instead.
"Maya?" Her voice is groggy—it's past midnight, and I've woken her up. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just... needed to hear your voice."
There's a pause. Eleanor knows me too well to believe nothing is wrong. But she also knows me well enough not to push.
"I'm here," she says. "Whatever it is. I'm here."
"I know." I curl up on my bed, the phone pressed to my ear. "Tell me about your day."
She does. She tells me about the article she's writing, about her roommate who keeps stealing her yogurt, about the professor who told her she has "a gift for making powerful people uncomfortable." Her voice is steady and familiar, an anchor in the dark.
I listen and try not to think about Vincent Moretti's letter. About the cabin in the White Mountains. About the truth that might destroy everything.
Two weeks. I have two weeks.
And then I'm going to face whatever's waiting for me in those mountains.